Stronghold
by sundialsandsmiles
Summary: Myka discovers an artefact the hard way. Bering & Wells.


This was inspired by/is a response to:  
post/48526286384/are-there-any-fics-where-myka-giv es-helena-a-lap-dance

I have never written for this particular fandom before, and if you wouldn't mind, I would really appreciate some feedback on it.

Anything in here about traditional gentlemen's clubs is based off of google searches and wikipedia (I know, not a reliable source, but this isn't exactly an academic research paper!), so if I've made any glaring errors, please forgive me, and do let me know!

Anyway, thanks for reading. Enjoy!

* * *

Helena closes the passenger door behind her and turns an eye to the building that stands across the car park. It is broad and windowless, its walls dark and unadorned but for the sign that parades above the entrance to the establishment with a proclamation in bright neon letters:

_The Stronghold: A Gentlemen's Club_

And it is _pink._ She never minded the colour before, but now that she has seen how stereotyped and gendered it has become over the years, she finds it… _obnoxious_. What, exactly, is it doing on a sign for a gentlemen's club, anyway?

Myka is already halfway across the car park, and Helena jogs over to catch up with her. Myka glances over at her with a brief and barely-there smile, but just as they reach the doors, she stops. "Have you ever gone into one of these places before?" she asks, and nods her head at the building before them. A look of distaste crosses her features.

"Well, as a woman, of course I was never granted membership to such an establishment, but on occasion, I did find ways to infiltrate their ranks," Helena replies, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Um…" Myka's eyebrows shift up and she glances away for a moment and then turns to Helena with a grimace. "This isn't that kind of gentlemen's club," she says. Helena blinks, and then looks up at those neon pink letters again, this time regarding them with far more suspicion. A popular bass rhythm pulses faintly from inside. She has a distinct feeling that she isn't going to like this place very much.

"Come on," Myka says, placing her hand on Helena's shoulder. "Just _brace yourself_." She flashes her badge at the doorman, and in they go. The lights are dim and mostly multi-coloured, and the music assaults her ears, though Helena must admit, it is not so jarringly loud as it had been in the night club they found themselves in a week back. Three seconds later, she realises what Myka finds so distasteful about this place: Two women dance on a stage in the centre of the room, wearing nothing but what Helena thinks barely counts as undergarments, while men leer all around them. She wrinkles her nose and follows Myka over to the far end of the bar, where no one is seated.

"May we speak to the manager, please?" Myka asks a young woman, leaning over the bar to be heard. There is a blush on her cheeks, Helena notices, but she is doing an excellent job of ignoring it. Helena empathises completely, but it would take something far more scandalous to coax a blush out of her.

She leans into Myka, curls brushing against her cheek, and says, "These clubs certainly have changed a great deal since my time."

"It's actually just a euphemism," Myka replies. "Strip clubs started out in burlesque theater and traveling shows. Gentlemen's clubs in the traditional sense are still around. You know, some of them even admit women as full members now."

"That's marvellous, darling," Helena says, smiling.

"What can I do for you, ladies?" A middle-aged man in a suit – presumably the manager – has joined them, resting an arm on the bar.

"Agent Bering, Secret service," Myka says, showing her badge again. "And this is Agent Wells. We understand you've had to throw quite a few customers out of your club recently."

The man bristles. "Yeah, well, sometimes men become unpleasant when they're drunk. Some of them crossed a line with my girls. You can't expect me to tolerate that."

"Of course not, sir," Myka says, trying to placate him.

"I take care of my own," he says curtly.

"We're just trying to figure out what's been going on." She leans against the bar, bumping a barstool out of her way. "Have you gotten anything new in here recently? Anything in particular that these men were exposed to before they started misbehaving?" she asks.

"What else? Alcohol." He gives them a sceptical look.

Helena decides to step forward at this point. "That would normally be the logical conclusion in a situation such as this one," – the man seems momentarily affected. It's probably the accent; she has noticed a general fascination in most Americans – "but some of these men were arrested, and none of them had any alcohol in their systems."

"I don't know what to tell you," the man says, giving a shrug. After a second, a thought seems to occur to him, and he narrows his eyes at her. "Are you implying that _something else_ is being pushed around here? 'Cause I'll tell you right now, that ain't the case."

"What are you getting so defensive for then?" Myka snaps at him.

Helena inhales sharply and watches the man's face darken. She steps forward before he can retaliate. "We didn't mean to imply anything, sir. We'll just let you get on with running your… business." She speaks the last word like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. The man looks at her dubiously for a moment, and then leaves them with a grunt and a nod of his head. Helena turns around to look at Myka, who has a vaguely confused look on her face. "That was slightly choleric of you, wasn't it, darling?" she asks, her hand slinking up to rest over Myka's on the bar.

"I don't know. I'm sorry. I guess I just let my mouth get ahead of my brain for a moment there." Myka says, shaking her head.

"No harm done. Now then," Helena says, turning toward the stage. "Let us see…" she trails off upon seeing one of the dancers hanging upside down from a metal pole that extends from the stage all the way up to the ceiling. Her blonde hair just barely grazes the floor, and one of the men hovers above her, tucking a couple of dollar bills under the fabric of her bra. He certainly takes an appalling amount of time to do so. Nonetheless Helena finds that she cannot help but stare.

Behind her, Myka's hand shifts and her thumb begins to stroke her palm. It sends a shiver up her arm and quite effectively wrenches her attention away from the spectacle on the stage. She quickly turns back to find Myka disorientingly close to her. "See something you like?" Myka's tone is light and teasing, and Helena swallows. She most certainly does, but it isn't one of the dancers. She looks away and clears her throat.

"We should see if any of the women can tell us anything about these men they had to boot out."

Myka leans back abruptly and pulls her hand away. "Right, of course," she says. They make their way toward the stage just as one of the dancers comes down. Myka raises a hand to wave at her. "Think I could get a minute of your time?" she asks as the dancer approaches her.

The dancer smirks and reaches up to trace her fingertips along Myka's jawline. "I think I could spare a minute for you. I'm sorry to say it'll cost you though."

Myka smiles at her, and Helena could possibly believe that she is seeing things that aren't there at this point, but she could also swear that Myka actually leaned into the touch. She blinks several times in confusion, and then Myka starts to speak. "Hm, well, in that case –"

"Myka!" Helena steps forward and takes hold of Myka's arm to get her attention. Myka sways as she turns to look at her, and then blinks, seeming to have trouble focusing.

"I think your girlfriend's a little jealous, honey," the dancer says, backing away from them.

"Excuse us, please." The dancer nods and Helena pulls Myka over to an unoccupied couch. "Myka, what have you touched?" she asks.

"I didn't touch her, she touched me!" Myka says, looking over her shoulder for the dancer again.

"Myka, please," Helena says, placing her hands on Myka's face, urging the other woman to look at her.

"Were you jealous, Helena?" she asks, and there is a glint in her eyes that Helena recognises all too well. Myka puts her hands on Helena's wrists and pulls them away. She guides them down her body, grazing them along the sides of her breasts as she shifts closer, and Helena's pulse jumps up into her throat. Myka throws a knee over her lap, and lets Helena's hands settle on her hips. She leans forward and whispers, "You were, weren't you?" Helena feels Myka's breath against her neck, and it sends a shiver down her spine.

"M-myka." The woman chooses this moment to roll her hips against Helena's, and a quiet moan slips from her lips. Myka's hands start to run up her arms, and she gives into the impulse to run her own hands over Myka's hips and down her thighs, then back up again. She feels a hand at the nape of her neck, pulling her forward and almost into a kiss, but Myka leaves an inch between them and moves with her, accentuating the motion again with her hips. Helena's hands slip to down to Myka's rear, fingers sliding into the pockets of her jeans.

The pressure of Myka's fingertips on her chest separates them, and Helena all but collapses against the back of the couch. Myka's other hand is lost in her curls, and she looks breath-taking. Helena tugs at Myka's shirt until it slides out of her waistband, and then there is warm flesh against her fingertips. Myka's hips continue to rock, and her entire body seems to follow their movements. Her skin is so soft, the curve of her waist so tantalising, and Helena cannot get enough.

The hand at Helena's chest leaves her, and then both of Myka's hands are at her shirt, pressing buttons through their holes ever so slowly. The fabric separates to reveal the curve of her breasts, but something nags at Helena's mind. When Myka reaches her third button, Helena remembers, as if torn from a dream, where they are and what they are doing there. Horrified, she reaches up to still Myka's hands before they can further destroy her dignity. "_Myka,_" she whispers fiercely. The woman seems to sober a little, and her hips gradually halt their rhythm. "You have been affected by an artefact," Helena states as calmly as she can when she's trying to resist the urge to resume their previous activities.

"What?" she asks, confused. Helena puts her hands on Myka's waist again and gently pushes her off. Myka stares at her, looking as if she'd like nothing more than to crawl back into Helena's lap and resume her strip tease.

"Myka, what did you touch?" she asks again. Myka blinks at her. "Earlier, when we were talking to the manager, what did you touch?" she clarifies, and Myka's eyes widen slightly as comprehension clicks into place.

"I – nothing!" she says. "I touched the bar, that's it. But –"

"So did I," Helena says. She glances over to where they had been standing, but there's nothing there. Nothing except… "Myka, where were we standing, exactly?"

"How should I know?" Myka says. She doesn't even bother to look at the bar though. She's more interested in the sheen of Helena's hair, it seems. She reaches out to run her fingers through it, but Helena stops her.

"Myka, this isn't you," she looks into Myka's eyes, but the woman just huffs indignantly. Helena reaches into Myka's jacket to retrieve a can of neutraliser. By the time she finds it, Myka's hands have plunged into her locks, and she is almost tempted to give in again, but resolutely, she gets to her feet and walks over to the bar. Myka trails drunkenly behind her, hands grasping at any part of Helena they can reach.

Helena shakes the can, and begins to spray the barstools, but nothing is happening. She starts to feel something akin to desperation, but finally, there is a shower of sparks. Myka's hands still at her waist, where they had been working her own shirt out of her trousers. A second later, the woman backs away from her, and Helena is almost afraid to look her in the eye. Myka's blush is back with a vengeance, and she is sputtering, attempting to explain, to apologise, but she is so flustered that she can hardly form complete sentences.

Helena swallows the small knot forming in her throat and says, "Myka, you have no reason to apologise. You were under the influence of an artefact." She pulls on a pair of purple gloves and grabs a leg of the barstool. "Help me with this?"

"Of course!" Myka nods and pulls another pair of gloves from her pockets. Together they carry the stool out of the strip club, and Helena can feel the gaze of most of the patrons upon them as they leave. Once the artefact is safely stowed in the back of the SUV, the two of them linger awkwardly for a moment. Helena slowly turns her eyes up to Myka. Her shirt is still untucked and the two buttons she released remain undone.

Helena clears her throat and says, "You might want to…" She points at the buttons, and Myka looks mortified once more. She fumbles with her shirt, blushing fiercely.

"Th-thanks," she mumbles, avoiding Helena's gaze again.

"Anytime," Helena says, and then she walks around to get into the passenger side of the vehicle. Myka sits in the driver's seat a few moments later. She sends Helena a few furtive glances as she fastens her seat belt. Helena looks over and Myka meets her eyes, with a look on her face like there's so much she wants to say, but she doesn't know how to say it. Helena curves her lips into a smile and places her hand over Myka's. Myka grasps it tightly the second they touch.

They say nothing. Helena hopes that it is enough.


End file.
